(Note Beaver, there, atop the red logging truck.)

There are only two pages of text in Beaver Is Lost, one being that titular phrase, the other “Home.” (You can probably deduce which marks the beginning, and the end, of the story.) So it’s one of those image-only books that allows the reader to lend her own words to the narrative told by the pictures–in this case, pretty watercolors detailing Beaver’s accidental daytrip into Chicago. (Lucky Beaver. He lives close enough to just make a day of it in Chicago…ah, sorry, never mind.)  Beaver is happily gnawing a recalcitrant branch off a log, afloat in the Chicago River (or some tributary?) when his log is lifted onto a truck, to be shuttled many miles along with many other logs, into the city. He escapes the lumber yard and begins his search for home, passing through a swimming pool, the zoo, the sewers, the Loop, and across a bridge before splashing into the river that takes him back to his dam-building brethren.

It’s a fun, simple story that older readers can easily narrate–or that you, wise Literagoan, can narrate for your toddler. But here’s a confession: There are times when I just don’t feel like reading Beaver Is Lost (which was an instant huge hit with Thalia), and the lack of text is why. Simply put, I’m lazy, and you can’t just read Beaver Is Lost; you have to tell it.  It’s harder to make up the story as you go along, even if the story is clearly outlined for you in adorable images. And there’s this overachiever part of me that feels like I should make it snappy and fresh every time, or maybe snappy and consistent, with pitch-perfect words to tell my version of Beaver’s journey. Not that I have ever accomplished that. I just tell the story super casually, and depending on how tired and fried I am when bedtime rolls around, I fumble to remember the most basic words for things. (”Uh-oh, here comes the uh….grabber-thing…the, uh, crane, no, the claw….whatever, it’s picking up Beaver on the log, see? And look! There goes Beaver, through the, uh, the, big tube, I mean sewage pipe…”) No, reading Beaver Is Lost does not leave me feeling brilliant. And I don’t think there’s much chance that Thalia will be reciting my words to this one, the way she does with, say, Kate Banks’ downright poetic And If the Moon Could Talk (which I really should feature in a future post).

[Hey! How about a Literago contest in which readers create their own narratives for Beaver Is Lost, and we vote for the best one, and the winner gets Cooper's entire backlist, and....No? Not happening? Oh, all right...]

But my own laziness and off-the-cuff storytelling shortcomings aside, Beaver Is Lost is a joy, a very welcome addition to our shelves—not least because it’s set in beloved Chicago, but also because Cooper’s style is gorgeous. I’ve already checked a bunch of his former titles—Magic Thinks Big (about a cat who can’t decide whether to go out or stay in; you gotta love that); A Good Night Walk; Farm—out of the library. You should, too.

So I was pretty pleased when a press release showed up in my inbox the other day, announcing the celebration of (what would have been) Leo Lionni’s 100th birthday, and in honor of that, a new website celebrating his life’s work. In a bio of Lionni on the site, I read this, about his childhood in Amsterdam:

His room became a miniature zoo and botany laboratory filled with jars containing live insects; aquariums containing minnows, tadpoles, snails, and shrimp; and cages with mice and birds. Best of all were his terrariums where he could create tiny environments for snakes, toads, salamanders, and frogs. In addition to all these live creatures, he had boxes of shells and pebbles and displays of butterflies and beetles, and hanging on strings running the length of the room were leaves, seedpods, feathers, and dried flowers.

Which reminds me quite a bit of my own childhood out in the boonies, up on a hill in middle Tennessee. Terrariums? Check. Box turtles, baby sliders; oh, I brought home many. Butterfly displays? Check. (This, a brief project of my mother’s, woman of many, many nature-based projects.) Snakes? I was brought up with no fear, really. Tadpoles? We had a pond right next to our house–a heart-shaped one that my parents had dug when they bought the house, but I remember being taken to another, smaller pond in the nearby woods to examine tadpoles close up. And so on… My childhood was, in short, one big nature trip, and then there was also Leo Lionni.

But what appeals to me so much about this artist-writer is not so much a celebration of nature for nature’s sake as it is the way he uses small creatures to tell parables that speak so clearly and movingly to the predicaments of the tender human psyche. Lionni’s mice and fish are lonely, jealous, ruminative, insecure; they are full of the foibles of sensitive types. Alexander wants so badly to be something he is not—to be more like his cool buddy, Willy. Frederick is castigated for being a dreamy, artsy type, but ultimately he makes it work for him. The chameleon wants to be a single color, like all the other animals, but eventually finds peace in the friendship of another “oddball”: an older, wiser chameleon. The fish wishes he could get out of his pond and experience the wonders of the world on land, but he learns to appreciate life underwater.

Many good children’s books relay a message or lesson, but it occurs to me that I haven’t come across many contemporary titles that traverse the emotional landscape the way Lionni’s do. (Please, speak up if you have suggestions.) So many children’s books are didactic (learn to go to bed easily! clean up! use your manners!) or purely sentimental (mama loves you) or fantastical, whimsical. None of which is wrong; all of those kinds of books have merit. But I’d like to see more that take on these tricky emotions in a subtle, graceful way (and I should also point out: Lionni’s artwork is very simply beautiful.)

I wonder if Lionni was a product of his time. Were more books with themes like his being published back then? Or does his work really stand alone–or am I just missing the books that are like his?

And I wonder what effect reading lots of Lionni may have had on my own tender young psyche. Am I a sensitive nature-lover, a little to prone to daydreaming a la Frederick, because I read and re-read these beloved stories? Or did they resonate with me so strongly because of something intrinsic to my personality, even as a really little person?

Probably a bit of both. 

So, hey, it just so happens to be the 91st annual Children’s Book Week, as Amazon has duly notified me, and in honor of that and Lionni’s birthday (May 5), do check out some of his work, yes? I’m pretty sure it won’t disappoint.

I’m still thinking about it, in fact, but then I think about cleaning up all those little bunny poop-balls, and how the bunny would no doubt poop on the floor in the house from time to time, and how the toddler would probably think that poop-balls are really cool to squish between her fingers, and…yeah. Also, I had two bunnies in my sweet, bucolic childhood, and both were put to rest, shall we say, by neighboring dogs. So. For now, at least, we’ll get our bunny love in the form of books. And if you’ve cruised the children’s shelves lately, you’ll know that there is no shortage of books featuring bunnies. I considered doing a post rounding up 8 or 10 of my favorites, even. For now, just the most recent adorableness, which falls snuggly into the category of THE CUTE:

Bunny Days, by Tao Nyeu, was brought to Thalia by—who else?—the Eastah Bunny. Bok bok. And I’m sorry, but I had a cute overload moment of meltiness tonight as she sat on the floor paging through it and said, in her toddler voice (which is, you understand, is THE MOST ABSOLUTEST CUTEST THING EVER), “Muddy bunnies!”

I’m just in love with the style of this book’s illustration—clean lines, supersimple white bunnies with cotton ball tails and pin dot eyes, and lovely limited color palettes for each of the three stories contained within (”Muddy Bunnies,” “Dusty Bunnies,” and “Bunny Tails”). And the stories tickle me too: In each, there’s a mishap involving industrious Mr. and Mrs. Goat: he splashes mud on our happy bunny friends while they’re at play; she vacuums them up from their underground dens as she’s vacuuming (yes) the meadow; he snips off their tails as he’s pruning the hedge they’re playing hide-and-seek in. Each time, the goats run to Bear to rescue the day, and Bear does so with aplomb—enlisting his washing machine, giant fan (WHIRRR!!!!), and sewing machine, respectively. Bear, it seems, is quite handy with the small appliances and such. OK, so this book would be fun enough if it just featured bunny-and-goat mishaps, but we have small appliances hanging out in the meadow with a scarf-wearing, tea-sipping, scarf-knitting Bear. (Who, like, is just sitting there knitting, in the meadow, right next to…his washing machine.) This is the kind of silliness and fancifulness that the littlest reader doesn’t even question; she just knows it’s fun. And an older kid or adult gets the humor of the incongruity and thinks it’s fun too. Score! And bonus: The dust jacket unfolds to a gorgeous, full-color poster of the entire cast. (Here we learn that Bear can also pick a mean banjo.)

So you can imagine my surprise—and amusement—when I came across this stiff, thumbs-down review from School Library Journal:

PreSchool-Grade 1—The bear from Nyeu’s Wonder Bear (Dial, 2008) returns in three simple stories. In each tale, six white bunnies are lounging around when Mr. or Mrs. Goat comes by and disrupts them. Bear comes to the rescue and repairs the damage. Each story ends with, “Everyone is happy.” Although they may be satisfied, Bear’s problem-solving methods are dubious. In the first tale, the bunnies are splattered in mud from Mr. Goat’s tractor. Bear puts the bunnies in a washing machine (conveniently located in the meadow) and then hangs them up by their ears to dry on a clothesline overnight. Next, Mrs. Goat is inexplicably vacuuming the field and sucks up the bunnies that are dozing in their underground burrow (but not the leaves or grass from the ground). Bear removes them from the vacuum cleaner bag, hangs them on a vertical clothesline, and directs a large fan at them to blow off the dirt. In the final story, Mr. Goat cuts off the bunnies’ tales while trimming the bushes. Bear uses a sewing machine to stitch them back on. Don’t try this at home, kids! Nyeu’s illustrations are silk-screened using water-based ink. The pastel palette and thickly outlined characters and objects are reminiscent of those in Crockett Johnson’s Harold and the Purple Crayon (HarperCollins, 1955). The simple language and layout of the book make it suitable for beginning readers, but the art far outshines the unremarkable text.—Martha Simpson, Stratford Library Association, CT

OK, Martha, for reals, please tell me you’re not a children’s librarian, because you so Don’t Get It. (Also, I have to say that the illustrations don’t remind me a thing of Harold and the Purple Crayon, not that there’s anything wrong with that cute classic. In fact, we read both of these at bedtime tonight; I didn’t think for a second of any comparison.) It is HILARIOUS that Mrs. Goat vacuums the field! HILARIOUS that Bear blows dirt from the bunnies while they’re pinned to a vertical clothesine!

You know what’s dubious, Martha, huh? Your reviewing skillz iz dubious. Ha!

Ahem.

And now for THE NOT SO CUTE:

In case you missed this fabulous collection last week, The Creepiest Children’s Book Covers EVER. (HuffPo)

I only question the inclusion of the Winnie the Pooh cover. C’mon, guys; even the littlest kid knows the all-important difference between POOH and POO. No creep factor here, sorry!

Finally, this post gave me an excuse (not that I really needed it) to eat the both-cute-and-creepy white chocolate, peanut-butter-creme-filled Bunnicula I picked up in Louisville the other week. Mmmm. Yummy Bunny.

Then again, children’s lit is, of course, lousy with farms. There are enough tractors and cluck-clucks and benevolent, overall-clad farmers to make you long for anything BUT the pastoral setting for your story-time travels. I have spent the past year of my life mooing and neighing and baaing, surely more than I have in the past thirty-odd years combined, and there’s more to come. But have I begun hiding all farm tales behind the couch? Nah. I’m cool with farms.

Here we have two groovy farm-related books, one new, one published a few years ago.

Jarret J. Krosoczka’s PUNK FARM tells the story of some rockin’ farm animals—cow on drums, sheep on vocals, chicken on keyboard, goat on bass, and pig on guitar—who kick out the jams all night long. As the band prepares for tonight’s big show, their farm animal fans line up around the barn, waiting to show IDs to the bouncers (that would be the horsies). The band is a big hit, belting out—you guessed it—a rendition of “Old MacDonald,” and ending with a true-to-life, “Thank you, Wisconsin!” The next day, Farmer Joe is bright eyed and bushy tailed, ready to work; the animal rockers are much more bleary.

The paintings are lively, colorful, and cartoonish in a child-pleasing way, and while I don’t know about your kid, mine snaps up any opportunity to belt “EE-I-EE-I-O!!” repeatedly. But I can’t help feeling that the book misses some great opportunities. There are so many silly directions you could go with the conceit of a farm animal rock band, right? Instead of much of the story being devoted to several verses of that familiar song, the band could’ve cranked out farm-takes on some classics, hung out backstage with some pretty heifers, and slamdanced (”Careful with the horns, dude!”). And considering that this book came out in 2005 and features a bovine percussionist, I was pretty surprised that a “More cowbell” joke didn’t show up as a wink-wink moment for the parents. And you kind of have to wonder why the concert wasn’t billed “LIVESTOCK”…and so on. Still, it’s a very fun concept, and not just another baby-animals-on-display title.

A totally different sort of farm music can be found in the just-released OUR FARM: By the Animals of Farm Sanctuary, by Maya Gottfried and fine artist Robert Rahway Zakanitch. Gottfried imagines the voices of various animals, then lets them narrate the sweet, mostly free verse poems that make up this book. Take the beginning of “Freedom!”, by J.D., a piglet:

I’m free!
And I’m running, and I’m running,
and oh, I can feel the sun on my snout.
There goes a fence post!
(…)

Or this haiku, by Barnaby the rabbit:

See me in the grass?
Maybe I will hop to food…
Or go sniff pansies.

Barnaby, J.D. and the other animal “poets” on display in this lovely book (the lamb on the cover makes me swoon a little every time I look at it) are real-life residents of Farm Sanctuary, a shelter for neglected and abused animals, and a portion of the book’s proceeds will be donated to the organization, which “works to end cruelty to farm animals.” Gottfried captures the animals’ characters—shy, gentle, twitchy, docile, frisky, playful, wise, and so on—in her poems, and their personalities seem equally realized in Zakanitch’s watercolor and ink paintings, which blend into and are accompanied by rough pencil sketches on bright white pages, bringing to mind a young artist’s sketchbook full of inspired doodles dancing with more finished pieces. The whole book feels carefree and springy, artful in a loosey-goosey (sorry) way. (I will not be at all surprised to find it on prominent display at Anthropologie.) It’s nice, too, to see farm animals’ genuine nature represented—the wary eye of a rabbit, the curious gaze of a goat—rather than the ubiquitous anthropomorphic take. I’ll be reading this one to Thalia, living vicariously through the warmth its pages exude, until we can get out and take some farm tours of our own later this spring. . .

Visit the book’s Facebook page.

Of course the warehouse, being empty, was considerably brighter than it had ever been during that whole ordeal. Walter wondered, had it always been this dusty? All memories seemed to him nocturnal: an array of colored lights swimming through a field of obscure electronic equipment draped in red satin, Walter wheeling about in an office chair, fetching a drink for one guest, a roach clip for another. All the while trying not to talk too much about Alexis, her absence conspicuous in what had been, primarily, a three month litany of loneliness began with their last kiss at O’Hare’s terminal three. There had been phone calls, sure, but phones, thought Walter, were bullshit.

The dust cast Stockwell in a murky penumbra of filth. Their eyes met with a naked recognition of shared shame. For explanation, Stockwell pointed a pudgy finger at the cell phone nestled into his shoulder’s hollow, no doubt attempting to liquidate what remained of their antiquated assets. Walter retreated to his former office cum bedroom—barren now—the diagrams and flowcharts torn down, the homemade chandeliers gone who knows where. All that remained was one sheet of that goddamned, infernal red paper.

“Must be strange,” said Stockwell, ducking to maneuver himself through the doorframe. “Being back here. Seeing it empty.”

Walter nodded.

“How have you been?” asked Stockwell with an uncharacteristic fragility.

Walter considered an offhanded quip about amphetamines or perhaps some light hearted reference to the week he’d spent certain he would die at Stockwell’s hand, but figured the gravity of the situation was probably best left unmocked and so answered instead with a shrug.

“I’ve been alright,” he added, after a moment. “Or you know, better anyway.”

Stockwell nodded. “Don’t suppose you know anyone looking to buy a reel-to-reel?” He didn’t wait for an answer, moving instead to the main room, pacing among the empty shelves. “We’ve gotten rid of most of it,” he said. “But some of this shit…a four hundred pound paper cutter, industrial kitchen sinks? These things do not move quickly.” Walter lit a cigarette in agreement.

Stockwell turned abruptly, a faint blush showing through his beard. “We gave your share of everything to Quill, you know, considering…”

“Of course,” replied Walter, leaving a trail of smoke to hang lazily in the dust-humid air. He took a seat at the folding table, fidgeting automatically with the fly swatter while Stockwell returned to his phone. The flyswatter, for Walter, conjured images of the first Smith & Jones office, back when the pair had operated in the relative sphere of anonymity to which they would likely return after the press fervor faded. The storefront had been positively overridden with flies. Unsurprising, really, given its equally dusty location in a largely uninhabited, low-rent corner of Chicago’s Paseo Boricua neighborhood, the playground Puerto Rican flags casting an ominous shadow on the front door of the building where Walter and Alexis first met.

He’d gone to the office one evening on a lark, playing straight man to Stockwell who, upon entry, set himself, predictably, to the task of irritating living hell out of both Smith and Jones by offering, unsolicited,  all manner of heavy handed advice on everything from plumbing to payroll. Within four minutes he’d offered to restaff their entire operation. Smith, red faced, failed to allow any of Stockwell’s opinions to pass unchallenged, while Jones resigned himself to sipping bluegrass beer and, occasionally, killing a fly.

The two, Alexis and Walter, discovered some degree of union in their indifference, at first casting errant glances in each other’s direction, later engaging in a clipped and awkward conversation concerning Baudelaire, Godart and a mutual affinity for 7-11 cuisine.

“The Big Poorboy,” opined Alexis. “Is as close to arriving at a class consciousness as any sandwich I know.”

Walter laughed. Alexis furrowed her brow.

“The sandwich,” continued Alexis. “Foodstuff of the proletariat finding its etymology in a goddamned Earl adds a layer of irony which ought not be ignored.”

Then and there, Walter asked Alexis out on a date. Alexis refused, then paused a moment and said, “Don’t get any ideas.”

The pair spent the duration of the summer hiding out in innocuous dive bars and passing notes—Alexis’s being mostly condemnation of their own bourgeois milieu, while Walter’s consisted primarily of sentimentally earnest flirtations. Alexis rejected the notion of a relationship outright, being unable to jibe with any notion as philosophically omniscient as love and, furthermore, refusing to relegate herself to systematic masculine oppression. Once, upon waking in Alexis’s spartan studio apartment, Walter said, “It’s just that I’d be sad if you were making out with other boys.” Alexis scoffed and refused any attempts at spooning for the rest of the morning. Never again did Walter broach the subject of relationships, preferring instead to, when allowed, exist quietly in Alexis’s embrace. The rest of his days were spent meticulously archiving the stack of loose-leaf notebook paper which had passed between their two hands.

Walter looked up at Stockwell whose phone was, at present, sitting idly at his side. “Have you sold the paper shredder?” he asked.

After a pregnant pause Stockwell answered. “We did, yes,” he said. “But the filing office…we haven’t gotten around to that yet. We tried selling it as confetti, but nobody bought that line.”

Walter advanced tentatively toward the filing office’s door while Stockwell looked on apprehensively. He stood frozen before it, until finally, with a cautious reverence, he pulled the handle outward to reveal a waist high stack of paper shreds. Contained therein were all of Walter and Alexis’s notes, in addition to blueprints of various skyscrapers, accounting ledgers both legit and otherwise and internet printouts concerning unified field theory, among other things. All destroyed in one manic burst when things had become, as Walter put it, a little too real.

Walter grinned. Taking a step back, he flung himself into the paper like so many autumn leaves. He lay on his back, tossing paper into the air, watching the corporeal manifestation of a year’s worth of dreams hang in the dust cloud overhead, flittering down onto his body like rain.

A Penguin Story, by Antoinette Portis

Harper Collins

40 pp.

PERFECT FOR: Dreamers, people who want to move away from home, people who have moved away from home, eternal seekers, the insatiably curious, those who bore easily, fans of the color orange, fans of the color green, fans of penguins.

We were already big fans of Portis’s first book, Not a Box, so when I saw this new one from her on The New York Times Best Illustrated Children’s Books 2009 list, it didn’t take me long to decide it’d be one of our Christmas adoptees. And I was in love on first read—in love with Portis’s simple, bold illustrations, rough and clean at the same time; in love with the story, which follows penguin Edna, weary of her home turf, as she looks for that “something else” that she knows must be out there, somewhere. The other penguins just want to play penguin games, but Edna is devoted to her search. And yep, her devotion pays off. Color represents the “something else”: Edna’s North Pole home is exclusively white, black, and blue, and what she finds—the tents and parkas, etc. of a team of research scientists—is brilliant orange.

She shares her discovery with the rest of her penguin crew, and the birds delight in their encounter with the scientists, who offer them an orange glove as a souvenir. But on the final page, Edna, our dear seeker of new experience, stands atop an icy outlook, wearing the orange glove as a jester hat, staring out at the blue, blue sea. “The next day, Edna wonders, What else could there be?” Behind her, on the facing page, a green boat is inching its way onto the horizon. The book’s end papers? Orange (front) and green (back).

I’m sure I don’t have to go on at length about how the theme of this book—the eternal search for the “something else”—should thrill any thinking adult. You’ll get it. That’s mainly why I’ve flipped over it, though it’d be a beautiful winner based on its look and design alone. A kid’s book that feeds the noisy adult mind’s need for meaning as well as it feeds its intended kiddo reader is a rare thing (rarer, maybe, than animated films that do the same?), and this is an exquisite example. And Thalia? She’s hooked too, on those sweet little penguins and the wide swaths of color and the pleasing geometry of each gorgeous page. And she wasted no time learning to see, and point out, the green boat…

I’ve already given A Penguin Story as a gift twice, and frankly, it’s killing me that I can’t show you every. single. page right now. It’s that good. (You can see a few pages, though not my absolute faves, here.)

(”I’ll never get tired of looking, thinks Edna.”)

Like the adult stuff, children’s lit encompasses worlds, and I don’t plan to traverse all of them. My exploration will be focused on picture books – from, say, baby-friendly titles up to about age 8 or so. There may be exceptions—say, when I discover Chicagoland middle-grade or YA authors I simply can’t not rave about or pull into our lair for a quick Q&A, or otherwise flirt with and flatter. But mostly, what you can hope to find here is regular dish and dialogue (and I do hope it’s a dialogue!) on marvelous books for the blankie set.

I come to this column bubbling with semi-selfish excitement, but also a lick of humility. As mama to one book-crazy toddlerina, I’m hot for the picture books right now, too—i.e., enthusiasm I have in spades. But let’s face it: The kidlitosphere is richly populated enough already to, well, merit the description “kidlitosphere,” so who do I think I am, hoisting myself all up in here as a children’s lit blogger, adding my tinny chirp to the chorus?

I base my authority on two pieces of cred: A) I am writer of some things that’ve found their way into print, including one quasi YA novel, and B) that bona fide mama status I mentioned just above.

Which is to say: Not that much. But hopefully enough.

If I am so lucky to have other, more seasoned children’s book bloggers out there reading these words? Please do send word (to susannah.felts [at] gmail [dot] com). Take my sweaty, sticky little hand in yours, and let’s play nice. Please: send inspirations, kind nudges of direction, corrections where merited.

What I hope we’ll all get out of this: Inspiration and guidance for your next library or bookstore spree. A glance at the latest and best in newly published picture books. A doorway to the lively chatter in the kidlitosphere. Lively (and by lively, I mean toddler-worthy lively) discussions of kid lit old and new, and of the challenge of raising readers in not-so-book-besotted world (A licensed-character-driven narrative of a world. The question: To Elmo lit or not to Elmo lit?). And, as my toddler would say, with left pointer finger poking vigorously at right palm: “Meh,” or more.

I hope to offer you an idiosyncratic, at times irreverent, take on the books my family and I are digging at a given moment, on our adventures in reading. And I hope to bring in some children’s book writers and illustrators for hearty Q&A, especially those bedded down in, or with even the most tenuous ties to, Chicago. (Shout out via that email address above if this sounds like you; likewise, if you’re a publicist/publisher/author workin’ it…)

More soon, but for now, speaking of irreverence, I leave you with this bit o’ fun: “Mom Takes Children’s Songs Literally,” from McSweeney’s Internet Tendency. (What are you talking about, “how I wonder what you are”? It’s a star. You just said it was a star.)

Check back soon for official column the first!

In this column, I’ll be speaking regularly about the state of bookstores, primarily the independents.  More than ever, it seems, the literary world is in a state of flux.  Online magazines and news coverage are replacing newspapers and glossies as we know them.  Kindles allow you to carry a whole library in your bag. Big box stores and websites are offering bestsellers at less than half their cover-price.

With the fall of big publishing, though, comes a renaissance of small presses, handmade zines, limited edition art books.  I’m excited about the immediacy of the internet, too; don’t get me wrong.  I like that people can hit a button after they read a story I wrote, and tell me how much they liked it.  Ron Silliman gets the bipolarity of the current moment: “we’re simultaneously caught in the wonder of the new and true mourning for the losses of the old.”

I would argue that we’re not mourning yet, because nothing’s been lost.  We’re rehashing, reconsidering, and even reviving.  Certainly, some things are falling by the wayside, and this moment could feel like a dark age of sorts, but only if one is strictly taking into account the merging of major publishing houses to a paltry seven, or the fact that the most dismal statistics report 80% fewer independent bookstores than existed 20 years ago.  In reality, we’re just figuring things out, enjoying the options, not nixing the old to usher in the new.

I’m going to talk about why bookstores still have a place in this world; how they’re a mini-revolution, already in action; how they are still exciting and necessary and sometimes boring and regular in the most wonderful way.  I’m also going to tell you about the things that are threatening bookstores, and make suggestions about how you can have your cake and eat it, too.

First, let me just list a few things that bookstores can do that Amazon cannot:

#1: You can attend live readings with authors where you can ask questions and touch the human skin, probably uninvited, of the writer you so admire.

#2: You can ask booksellers a question, and they will give you impromptu answers they might be basing on the vibe they get from you, or the enthusiasm level in your responses to their suggestions. Sometimes those booksellers smell nice and you develop crushes on them.

#3: You can accidentally find books that you aren’t looking for but absolutely need.  At a website, they might recommend a book in a genre similar to the book you are buying or by the same author, but in a bookstore your eye can catch on that vegan soul food cookbook across the room and only you see it as the perfect companion to Lorrie Moore’s Self Help.

This is just the start. Shall we?